Wastelands v2
by Sober Dogs Bore Me
Summary: She is intoxicated by the power he emits. WARNING: disturbing.
1. Wastelands, part 1

**Author's Note**: If you begin to read this, please, please review. I really want some feedback, about how the 'plot' was, were you disturbed? How was the language? How well did I utilize the various elements I used? Are their any particular phrases that stuck you and will stick with you? And most importantly, did you _enjoy_ it, however perverse it was?

I love this work. My first attempt at sex, at 'smut' pulled with my own brand of originality (with a perverted hue!). It's taken a Hell lot of time when compared to the number of words it contains. So again, please, please review with substance and preferably, hopefully, with your personal answer to one (or more :P) of the aforementioned questions.

Thank you.

Ps. For those who are jumping from the earlier Fic, there is some new material, a few grammatical corrections and much improved flow. Since it's not that large, I'd suggest you read it again.

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**Wastelands**

She felt enchanted. There was so much power within him tonight, so much power just dancing upon his skin, just out of reach. It permeated the air, heady and musky and delightful. She could feel it rising from his body as she touched; welling up along the cuts along with the blood. Groaning, she leaned back against the wall, in arousal and in disgust. She had never seen him like this. She had never seen _anyone_ like this.

His body was illuminated by the small bedside lamp she had just conjured. The dancing flames created amorphous shadows of light and dark upon his skin, and she stared as they languorously morphed into the other, light blending into dark and separating again. Their play drew her in. The heady scent of power diffusing through his skin struck her speechless in lust. Night entered through the open windows and whispered sweet cruelties into her ear. She tried to gaze away. "_No, no, no, no…"_

He was there, so helpless, so beautiful, right in front of her, in her domain, underneath her… power. She heard what he'd done. A hundred dementors… and he was only thirteen. It made her just desire him more. An unbridled vision of the night came into her mind. The air frozen and still around him as the Dementor's closed… a rising wand, and a shock of power… sensual and destructive… and the bright, sepulchral sheen of the Patronas as it shattered that mists of despair that were cohering in and around him. She trembled. A sliver of restrained dropped upon the ground and broke.

A soft, whispered regret and the doors were locked. Determined, she walked towards him. Another flick of her wand and the curtains closed around the bed and solidified. She suddenly realized that there were other patients in her Wing tonight. But no, she had given then sleeping draughts after Dumbledore had left. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing _else_ to worry about.

She whispered a word and his hospital gown disappeared.

The first touch was the hardest. She braced herself as she brought an open palm into contact with his back.

"Oh!"

She couldn't help it. Her spine arched back, each and every one her muscles felt taut, filled with this wild, vivacious energy that Potter emitted. She had been feeling that power every since he went comatose. It had been teasing her, mocking her. She couldn't help it: she arched back and moaned and trembled in the surprised throes of orgasm.

It took her many moments to compose herself and she gazed in wild wonder at the thin, emancipated body that had made her lose control so entirely. She was breathing heavily. "Restraint be damned," she thought. She brought her wand to turn him around. Nothing happened. She tried again, pronouncing the movement of the spell clearly. Still nothing. Strange thoughts were beginning to creep through the arousal. Again. Nothing. She looked at her wand in surprise, wondering…

Only to see her hands cupping empty air. She had probably dropped the wand during the orgasm.

She laughed.

A moment later, with the wand in hand, she muttered the spell again. His body rose into the air and slowly turned, with the shadows of the lamp dancing violently upon his pubescent formations. Shadows dipped in the crevices of his boyish hips; light enunciated the jutting ribs on his puerile chest. Strangely she felt no regret, no dissenting thought. Her mind was alit with possibilities. His power hummed in the background, a maddening caress to her engorged desires.

She brought him down gently and began to undo her own clothes. Now naked, and shivering, with eyes bright and wide with lust she registered, finally, at the edge of the cliff: she was going to rape Harry Potter.

The world was grey and the tempest groaned and grew as Madam Pomfrey put her feet beyond the edge and fell into the abyss.

She picked up the half filled flask of a sleeping potion, and tipped its contents through his surprised lips. Her hands touched the cold skin of his cheeks, drawn tight over the face, and travelled down, pinching his lips in their descent. His power was infecting her, and she was beyond caring now. There was urgency in her moments, in her jerky explorations of his childish body. She was spurred on by the vision of a desire she could not define.

He just lay there, dead to the world, his beautiful green eyes pointed towards the ceiling, his lips slightly parted in an expression of surprise. She ran her hands upon him, bending and devouring with her hot, restless mouth the lovely protrusions of his collarbones. She followed with her lips the cold pale expanse of his body, and every bump, every shuffle in the smooth cloth of his skin served only to heighten the throbbing, violent pleasures that chained her.

With her wand clutched tightly in one hand, she touched his sacs gently, cupping them in one hand, running a light finger down their hairless, childish curve. She twisted them sharply wondering in some godforsaken corner of her mind whether it would elicit any response.

It didn't.

She felt broken; she felt invigorated. With a helpless sort of lunge she clambered upon the bed, and dropped her mass upon him. There was a roaring in her ears, the awakening of a wildflower, strange and unrestrained. He was cold beneath her. Fire and Ice. She shuffled her legs, and the friction travelled high and dripped her arousal upon him. She _mourned_ and began to involuntarily grind herself upon his chest.

His breath hitched and gurgled in his throat.

Her wand was pointed straight at his limp member and she looked down at it from her perch. She was grinning lusciously, a wide wild crunch of teeth surmounted by fat lips. This was it, her victory. She bent and trailed a slow path along his small, shriveled member. "Oh god!" she cried as her body stiffened again for a fleeting moment, then writhed atop him, her legs thrashing upon his face, punching his cheeks, stabbing his eyes. "Oh god! Oh god..."

Her desperate breaths as she crushed him were broken by the whimpers that escaped as one orgasm wound down and another began to build. She could feel the pungent haze of his power seeping into her, drowning her through her pores, breaking her and molding her. Her body couldn't stay still. The desperate need for, for _sex_ burned her. Her chest heaved, in out _inout_, as she turned towards his prize. It lay as limp as before.

_"Engorgio."_

It was horrible how she was breaking him and in some dim corner of her mind she knew this would kill him. But she, she couldn't bring herself to care. Her need blinded her.

The member grew, the small head encased by foreskin enlarging into gigantic proportions, three inches, 4 inches… she didn't want to stop, he was not Harry anymore, he was just her penis, he was _only _a penis, red and monstrous for her pleasure.

She clutched the member and slid down the large flap of foreskin that covered it. What greeted her wasn't what she wanted. The smooth expanse was an ugly mess of folds and indentations. _It doesn't matter. Nothing else matters. _

_"Petrificus." _

It froze, turning hard as stone. Red and monstrous and for all purposes, _aroused_ for her. The foreskin hanging around its base, looking like a small pedestal through which her pleasure jutted up. With pathetic, jittery movements hindered greatly by her mass, she aligned herself with it. And then she _dropped_. She dropped and rose. Dropped and rose. Again and again. Her hands feverish with desire latched on to his chest for support. The world outside grew darker and darker.

Pomfrey screamed.

Her legs burned and quivered beneath her. Her arms clutched a torn and bleeding patch of skin, as the orgasm broke her mind into shards and pinpricks that pierced her skin and set her lungs on fire and she screamed and screamed…

This was heaven. This was bliss. His member gutted her with every fall, its abnormal proportions stretching her until her breath was violently expelled from her lungs. As she lifted her quivering mass and heaved down again, she felt it pierce her, but it was not only the physical feeling that sent her frothing but also the power that he seemed to expel from every pore, the power that coated his body, and now hers, like a slick aphrodisiac. Upon him she rocked in lust. Her breath heaving, her thighs slamming into his spindle frame, leaving deep purple indentations.

He was a broken doll she repeatedly claimed. He was dying beneath her. She dropped upon him, angry in her lust, her body crushing his lovely bones, her breath expelling her cries into the silent, horrified air. She dropped…

…And the unwilling foreskin she had hardened into stone gave way beneath her assault upon his lust. The pedestal of her pleasure broke away. Blood welled up like a halo around his member and cried.

Her eyes were wide and wild in lust. Her mouth frothed and screamed and moaned. Damp and matted, her hair hung in front of her, hiding reality from view. Her chest heaved in breathless symphony with her thrusts. She brought a bloodied hand up from his mangled chest and mashed her breasts. Her lust bore down upon him like a beast: a gaping, hungry mouth that came to rest upon a halo of blood.

Upon him she rocked in lust.

And somewhere, someplace that didn't matter anymore, in a reality shattered to feed her dream, her nightmare – on that lost earth a clock ticked, ticked, and chimed.

There was a feral look in her eyes, as if the pretense she had built had been washed away exposing the untamed beast beneath. Her screams had degraded into growls, into drooling moans and half human sounds of pleasure. She had bent, somehow, her mass so that her lust lay open to his thrust, her withering legs spread wide in a perversely inviting position, convulsing in the air. Her flesh curved against itself in hundreds of folds that rippled with every moment she made, with every violent scream her helpless throat cast into the air. She was a prisoner of her own desire, of a vision she could not understand. Madness had shattered her like glass, and then sprayed the fine remains in a lethal fog back towards her.

A hand clutched desperately to her wand.

She was not complete anymore. She had been broken up into fragments that no longer worked in tandem. Her hands sped up down, mashing her breasts, clutching his face, bringing it close for a searing kiss that half ripped his lips. Her lags trashed of their own accord. Nothing was connected. She was a disjointed mess pulled forward by the adhesive nature of her lust. Her magic understanding the song of her lust shot out the unspoken spells.

And he was thrown backwards, his body arched back uselessly, as if he were dead. Another spell, another scream that rang in the silence of their hell, and he come tumbling, his face slipping between her knees, kissing the fat of her stomach. And his broken lust seared a violent path into her cunt, depositing a fine spray of blood that didn't matter anymore, because nothing mattered. The world was an amalgam of her pleasure and his pain.

She stopped for a second, a fleeting moment that she found his lifeless eyes staring into her own and was truly, completely unable to recognize, to understand. The growl sounded, the moment passed, and he was flung back into hell, into wastelands, his puppet body thrashing without a will of his own, twisting, straining at its seams, tearing, and bleeding its red nothings into the air. Back and front, back and forth, between Hell and the putrid naked beast that held him, his lust thrusting again and again and again into her insatiable desires renting her into orgasm after battered orgasm.

The air was still and quiet, and resigned, and in the wastelands that spread from the deepest night into the most hopeless of dawns, there was only a bed and the song of her lust.

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**About the third part**. I had originally planned to make it with Harry's point of view but this, _this _seems so perfect, so complete in itself that I feel like separating them now, into two segments. It is coming, but sadly it will be a longer wait that I had hoped since I'll be fleshing it out further. For those who are _waiting _for it, do not worry. It will be as, if not more disturbing and will surely be much more _unconventionally _oriented unlike the conventional "rape" theme that this follows. 


	2. Wastelands, part 2

**Wastelands**, part 2

**Summery: **In the Dementor induced dreams, Harry finds madness beyond all he had ever imagined. Disturbing.

* * *

It is not real.

It is not real.

It is not—

He could see her, his mother, clearer than he'd ever seen before. She was a quivering mass upon a grey and foggy floor, leaning away from the black, turbulent cloud of Lord Voldemort.

A flash of blinding light and a thump, awful in its finality.

It's not real. It's not, it's not.

There was red hair falling in thick strands upon a skin pale and lips red, in terror. And eyes desperately roving, here, there, hoping hoping…

Not real. Not real. Not…

And then a flash of green light illuminated this nightmare world. And a laugh…

No!

It was as it's always been, but different too. So much more clearly he could see her tears, her last regrets. He wanted to cry out for her as she died again and again in front of him, the curse blinding him but not muffling the chilling laughter that followed, or the forlorn cry of his baby self. He wanted to cry and scream and break against Voldemort, shatter that bastard into thousands of little pieces. He tried to look away as the mocking shine of the curse smothered him. Butcouldn't.

An ominous thump.

And laughter.

It was as it's always been, but different. He felt trapped here, in this room, in this memory, unable to turn, to close his lids, to gorge out his eyes as his mother died a thousand deaths and he just stood and watched. He tried to move himself, but couldn't. It was his mind and he was an omnipotent presence here, looking at her death from infinite angles. Small shards of these infinite visions jarred against him, flicking in and out, and at once he was above her, in front of, behind and beneath. He enveloped her in every possible way, and her cries, her pleas, her desperate pathetic attempts to save in vain echoed against him.

The scene repeated.

Again.

Again.

NO!

Pain blossomed, so strange and so alien in this dreamscape, like a child's monster, red eyes and eight hoary arms. He didn't know what hurt, but something did and the death scene was now freckled with faint droplets of red. Time, or something akin to it, passed and the pain escalated. And the funeral procession repeated.

It was a strange sort of pain, accompanied with a feeling that scalded him and made the hairs at the back of his neck –

He wanted to laugh. What hairs? What neck?

He was trapped in this nightmare, watching his mother die, watching her as she screamed her one last scream, her chest thrust out before the fall. This was his world, and nothing beyond it. This vision, and now the pain.

Voldemort entered, shrouded in black. Red hair bobbed in panic back.

A scream emitted into the laden air. A flash of green.

A blaze of red.

And he _screamed. _

A sudden, burning hurt surged through him, rattling his vision and his scream, his unending broken terrified helpless scream was cast out into the indifference of his own mind. It echoed and echoed back.

The grey and foggy floor turned red and glassy. The walls shattered, now veined with blood.

He was looking around in panic, trying to search for the attacker but only the multitudes of the dismembered visions stared back at him, bringing into disturbed focus the rise and fall of a helpless, lovely breast. The pain rose and seared again, accompanied by that strange, alien and somewhat familiar feeling that set him ablaze with this feverish…heat. He watched his mother as she died, but he watched now not her death, but _her_. He watched her tears trailing down her beautiful skin, her eyes his eyes opened wide in submission. A heavy breath expelled the pleas out of those lips and he watched her breasts dance with the rhythmic heave of her chest. Then that obscuring flash of green and that thump. In some forsaken, pain ridden corner of her mind he wondered if her breasts were sq-

NO!

What was he doing? He tried to back away, to run, to go so far that this vision, that his mother, that her breasts would shrink and die and disappear into a little pinprick in the blank wall of infinity. But wherever he moved, she was there. Whatever he did, the unbridled vision of his lust?… stared back at him, daring, baring…

NO!

There was pain. Beyond and above all else, there was pain that submerged him for long moments, blanking his vision until he kicked through its surface, blue and breathless. There were screams and self-loathing and disgust. He kicked against the _fabric _of his vision, willing it to tear, pleading with his deities. He kicked and scratched and screamed and tried to break through this fucking nightmare but those breasts those lips that hair that beautiful, beautiful body reeled him in…

…as it repeatedly died.

The pain cut through the world and the vision swam and he, incoherent in hurt and in putrid lust opened some godforsaken mouth and screamed into the uncaring expanse… the pressure built and built, a heavy throbbing roar that drowned all else…

And something like a flash of light cut through the vision. The pain immediately dimmed and his mother disappeared and he found himself in a hazy, bleak fog, lost, alone and broken with helpless tears. He was thirteen. This…this was madness. An instant in infinity passed and the fog cohered around him. He felt impelled to walk towards it as little intangible slivers of silver, sparkling with black tore through him and submerged themselves into the fog…building a picture. He felt impelled to walk even though he had no legs, no arms, no limbs, just a lost, scared consciousness intrigued and frightened by what it encountered. He walked –

And suddenly the world was new and raw again. And sharp. The contrast grated against his nerves. He tried to move his head and found that he was still trapped. The world was as black and bleak as before and he had not escaped, but just been thrust into another sort of hell. He looked around, trying to understand where he was. The pain had nearly died…

He looked away, in mortification. There was a woman, and below her was, was a penis and she was having…having _that…_having _sex _and he was, he was IN her? Looking through her eyes?

How! How was this possible?

The arousal rose like bile burning through his throat and he wanted to turn away but couldn't, and stared as the penis thrust and thrust into _that _between her disgusting fat legs. It was putrid and disgusting and sick and…fascinating. He had never felt like this. The arousal rose and he knew that if everything was alright, he would have been touching himself down there, watching this with wide hungry eyes…

The scene shifted. The hazy distorted world started to twist and tumble in a mess of skin and sex and he wished so bad he was, that everything was normal. The desire rising through him prickled in some—

And then he saw. Himself. Wild black hair matted in its roots will blood… greens eyes lifelessly staring into him, set into a bleeding and torn eye socket, cheeks punched in… a face broken and bashed and dying. He saw his thin matchstick body dangling between the woman's massive legs, swinging like a pendulum, like a puppet until it kissed her foul breasts, and then thrown back, arched, straining, breaking. His penis attached to her, thrusting on it's own accord…

And he screamed and screamed.

The vision dissolved and his mother was back, dying with her beautiful breasts thrust outwards in aggression and submission. He screamed in his arousal and in his disgust. He wanted to touch them. He wanted to cut off his hands. The pain was back, along with that arousal, building in him like a crescendo, enveloping him, caressing his desires.

And the world flickered again, and he was dragged screaming into the woman, starring at a dead himself as he thrust and broke, like a wave breaks against a cliff. There were sounds too now, inhuman moans and screeches, high pitched and warring against him. And there was blood, the overwhelming crushing scent of blood and arousal. He wanted to retch, to retch, to retch his inside out so that he could escape, this horrible, horrible –

His mother, dying. The curse cleared and he saw that as she fell she moaned, and writhed upon the red in a glassy floor. And he watched—

He watched himself, screaming. He watched himself being contorted into inhumane postures, his lower self fervently, mindlessly thrusting while his upper stretched and stretched and came into aching, breaking contact with sharp vicious teeth and a fat lip hungry for sexual contact. The black night enveloped then. A candlelight flicked, and the pale dancing flames across his body—

His mother. His beautiful, redhaired greeneyed, slim, undiscovered, unknown, dead, dead as dead can be mother was beneath him, her eyes wide and pulsating in terror, her lips snarled and bared like an animal and he thrust, and thrust and screamed even as arousal ripped and broke and shattered him. The ground beneath her was crimson with their blood and she slid across his madness, and he reveled in the intense pleasure that his penis buried in his mother gave him.

It was a dream and he was…

…So close to that bloody woman's face that their lips were touching. His arousal herald him to move but he was trapped within her hulking body. He watched as her tongue slithered into his mouth and she licked his lips, swiping the blood along with the…

And she exploded into movement. A loud snap ringed his ears as a bone broke. Her mouth thrust forward, like the snout of an animal and bit upon his lips…

And he was back in his mother, crying aroused and broken. She was sobbing, pleading, "Please not him, take me instead..." and he was, he was taking he, breaking her. And a flash of green, and she slumped, dead eyes and cold feverish skin, naked as the day she was… and as beautiful as he needed her to be. Dead eyes and mouth slightly parted in a plea to save him as he madly thrust into her, taking her dead body across the floor slick with their blood, her cold and lifeless vargina unresponsive to his assault. He was omnipotent here. He watched himself from all possible angles, shards of infinite visions jabbing into his engorged desires and escalating into a...

Release.

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**End Notes**: Well...I don't think Anybody would have expected that :P. Anyways, if you do decide to review reader, please just answer this one question:

Did it have that palpable sense of 'Horror'?

On the language: I've tried a completely different style, since the earlier was from the PoV of Poppy, and this is a 13 year old Harry.

Anyways, I hope you...err, like it? Enjoy it?

Well, I hope it sticks. :P

Ps. It's open for corrections.


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